Matilda Morgan
by
Cyril Fletcher
        
This tells of poor Matilda Morgan,
Who had an outsize nasal organ,
From whence like some loud-speaker roared,
Most fearful noises when she snored;
These rose in quite a scale ascending,
Until a violent snort came rending,
Then with a gurgle as of pain,
Would start the same tune round again.
The sleepless neighbours used to stir,
Arid murmur, 'Lummee! hark at her!'
While some, with manners prim, got shirty
Who thought the noises sounded dirty.
Her brother then, facetious pup,
Said 'Can't you bung that hooter up?' 
And suiting action to his talk,
He plugged each nostril with a cork,
But found with each succeeding snort,
They popped out with a loud report,
And just like bullets from a gun,
Shot all her toes off... one by one. 
Then poor Matilda, feeling weak,
Applied a clothes-peg to her beak,
But found the snort confirmed her fears,
And simply backfired through her ears,
Which made them flap so much about
The draught blew all her curlers out,
So now she's gone, though sad at heart,
And in a lighthouse plays her part,
For when there's fog impeding craft,
Matilda takes a sleeping draught,
And sailors hearing snore and snort,
Can guide their vessels into port.

The end